


Altered State

by neverthelessthesun



Series: Moxie 'verse [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), Thor (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Angst, Awesome Darcy Lewis, Established Relationship, F/M, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff, Multi, Past Bucky Barnes/Steve Rogers, Post-Avengers (2012), Pre-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Short & Sweet, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Steve Feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-27
Updated: 2015-12-27
Packaged: 2018-05-09 15:34:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5545340
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/neverthelessthesun/pseuds/neverthelessthesun
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sequel to "Moxie". </p>
<p>Steve has two soul marks, and one is the wrong color. But, all things considered, he's fine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Altered State

**Author's Note:**

> I finally wrote a sequel! Whoo! Thanks to everyone who has been patient with me while waiting for this--It's been months with no progress and then I cranked this out in about two hours.   
> All mistakes are mine, unbeta'd etc.   
> Comments are gold! Thank you for reading!

When Steve woke up, there were words on his right arm that matched the faded grey ones on his left. He tried to cry for a while, because replacing Bucky should make him cry. But the tears didn’t come, even if the feelings of guilt and self-hatred persisted. He wondered if the new mate would hate him for being too late to come along. He wondered if that was going to be a theme in his life.

.o0o.

Months later, after New York, and when he had reflected on all that had occurred, he found he had two options: He could beat himself down for things out of his control, or he could come to terms with his loss and look forward to the person to whom he was now promised. 

Steve had a moment of clarity—he chose to live his life as Peggy wanted him to, as Bucky would have wanted—to the best of his ability. After all, if he clung to the past, he really would be late finding his next mate. He had a duty to present his best self to them, that he might make top for not being around for so long.

In the new millennia, it was startlingly clear how much Steve had changed since beginning Project Rebirth. He no longer struggled with his body’s limits—he could see more, do more, be more than he had ever dreamed of before. His illness had been a large part of his identity—to have it gone was almost like losing part of himself. 

The war changed him too—Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder, his therapist called it. He had nightmares, he spooked easily sometimes. Every time he heard the subway roll past, he had to push back memories of Bucky getting smaller and smaller…

But he learned how to deal with his new illness, much like he had dealt with the old ones. There was a deep philosophical truth hidden in that struggle—the eternal struggle of man against sickness. It brought people together with shared experiences and battles. He wouldn’t want to be perfectly healthy, even if the serum had made that possible—it would be so lonely.

His thoughts often turned to his new mark. He wondered if they were lonely.

The new mark was long. His soulmate must be wordy. That’s good, he thought, remembering the quiet, sometimes stilted conversations he had with Bucky. A talker wouldn’t mind his quietness.

Steve tried not to compare the new mark to Bucky’s, but it was so hard. They were mirrors of each other on his body, and they were both responses to his own words. Bucky’s self-confident scrawl was dark and measured, while the new handwriting was looped and light—female, he thought. 

The words seemed so self-depreciating. Steve didn’t like that, how they seemed to curl in on themselves and point daggers at the one who said them. He sometimes wondered if he had been around earlier, could he have saved his soulmate some hurt? But that was a dangerous road, and Steve’s therapist trained him how to avoid traveling it. 

.o0o.

When Steve met Darcy, his world lit up with her fire and passion. She was vibrant. His fingers itched to draw her in deep blues and crimsons, and to outline the wicked sharp curve of her smile. She made him breathe a little faster, a little deeper, and he was helpless against her powerful eyes—they beckoned and warned at the same time. He wanted to know their story. 

He wasn’t even surprised when his new words spilled from her lips. He was already ensnared in her, before she even saw him.

So, naturally, he asked her out to dinner. And, when that went well, he asked her out again. Before he knew it, he was going steady with the prettiest and smartest dame he had ever met, Agent Peggy Carter included. 

Their first kiss surprised him. He was thinking of courting her like he would have courted Peggy, after the war. But this was 2013, not 1943. Kisses and dances meant different things now.

Their third date was window shopping in Columbus Circle. It was the week before Christmas, and the shops were buzzing with bundled customers. Steve had just laughed at some pointed remark Darcy had made, and was turning to respond, when she pulled him down by his scarf and pressed her chapped lips to his. He was honestly startled, and his jaw went slack. her cold nose pressed against his cheek.

When she pulled away, she looked apologetic. “I was tired of planning it out in my head. I had to do it or I would drive myself mad. Also, your laugh is adorable.”

Steve swept her up and kissed her sweetly as he could. It was giddy, pressing their freezing hands into his coat pockets and sharing air for a moment after. He broke out into a huge smile. She smiled back, wicked and beautiful and so, so soft, and he felt himself warm in his bones, despite the biting winter air.

Three blocks later, it started raining, and they laughed as they raced the downpour back to her apartment. “Come inside and get warm?” she offered. He almost accepted. 

“Darcy,” He murmured, “I would love to, but I really ought to head back to HQ.”

Her face fell. “Alright,” she hummed. “I guess…”

“I want to, Darce,” he said, using the new nickname she liked so much. “I want to so badly, but…this, what we have, means something. I want to take it slow and cherish this, because I’ll never get another chance like I’ve got with you.”

She nodded, and gave him a little smile. “I know, Steve. I get it. And you? You make me want to take it slow. I’m not a waiting kind of girl, but…” she winked at him. “Well, I guess I will have to do without tonight. But be aware, my patience is small. Like, chihuahua small. Eventually I’m gonna take matters into my own hands.” 

He grinned down at her, and kissed her because he could. “I look forward to it,” he whispered against her jaw. Then he backed away, shot one more grin over his shoulder, and strolled on home before she changed his damn mind.

.o0o.

In the coming months, they learned much about each other. They learned what topics to avoid, what ones to ask about later. Steve was surprised that Darcy had as many memories as he did that she didn’t want to revisit. It made him desperately angry sometimes. Mostly it just made him wish he had remembered how to cry. 

They made love on new year’s day for the first time. Her fingernails left indents on his shoulders, and his teeth made a blue pattern on her chest. They both apologized. Then they did it again. 

They moved into Steve’s cramped Brooklyn studio the following week.

.o0o.

Darcy took to navigating his PTSD like a pro. Considering her job as Tony-Wrangler extraordinaire, he shouldn’t have been surprised. But every time they uncovered another place they fit together, his breath caught in his throat and his heart thrummed faster. She matched him, nightmare for nightmare, until he didn’t feel guilty waking her up in the night. 

“I think Bucky would have loved you,” he mouthed into the skin of her thigh one sunny, cold morning. Then he woke her up with his lips and tongue and the sound of her own voice as she reached her peak. 

After she returned the favor, he made eggs and Canadian bacon and orange juice for breakfast. She licked the corner of his mouth when he made a mess. They both laughed and told stories that were smaller bits of bigger stories that they would never tell. 

They both felt like something maybe was missing, but neither could have said what exactly, and anyway neither brought it up. Outside the snow resiliently refused to melt under the soft, clean sunlight.

Those days in that tiny studio apartment in Brooklyn are still some of Steve’s best memories. 

.o0o.

At the end of March, when the snow melted and the sun got stronger, Steve was showering after a run when he noticed that Bucky’s words seemed to flicker darker once a second. He pressed his teeth into the meat of his arm, right where Bucky’s words ended, and very nearly remembered how to cry. 

The next day, over Chinese containers and bad TV, Darcy mentioned her own mark.

“It’s the same, mostly, it just itches. And this morning I swore I saw something in the shower,” she commented. 

“What did you see?” Steve asked, monotone.

“It looked almost like there was another mark there, for a moment. Then it disappeared. I’ve never heard of anything like that, I though I must have imagined it.” Her voice now said she was rethinking that opinion, and something in his reaction made her do so. He didn’t say anything.

Darcy set her plastic fork and Mongolian Beef down hard enough to splash sauce on her t shirt. She wiped it off carelessly. “Steve, tell me what’s going on.”

He still didn’t say anything. The stain of the soy sauce sunk into the fabric of her shirt.

“Steve!” Her voice cut his concentration. “You asked me to share the burden, to not try to handle everything on my own. Return the favor. Tell me what’s wrong.”

He met her eyes. She had that brilliant fire still burning behind them, this time alight with concern. He almost smiled.

“My grey mark is…being strange,” he allowed.

She held out her hand in silent question. He placed his left wrist in her grip. Darcy rotated his arm and pushed the sleeve of his shirt up to reveal the mark, still flickering with every heartbeat. 

Me, too, Stevie. Always knew it would be you. 

“Steve…” Darcy breathed out. “Steve, is that? What? Does this mean?” But he didn’t have an answer. 

Further examination of Darcy’s ribcage led to the discovery of a faint, flickering mark there as well—it was black one moment, gone in the next, in the same rhythm as the flickering on Steve’s mark. The words were hard to make out, but they read, “You are my mission,” in harsh, blocky script. They sent a chill down Steve’s spine. 

“Steve, we need to find out what this means.” Darcy’s words seemed to float from far away. Could it be? Could Bucky be back? How? Why was Darcy his mission?

Darcy’s eyes, at first so full of fire, now looked scared. Am I losing you? They said. Steve pulled her into his arms and held her tight as he dared. 

He didn’t know.


End file.
